


Desert Places

by LifeofPie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Case Fic, I won't kid you there are brief moments of darkness, Inside Sherlock's head, M/M, Mind Palace, Plot Twists, Slow Burn, i don't want to spoil the story but contact me if you really need warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeofPie/pseuds/LifeofPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on an insight into what it takes to be Sherlock Holmes and how I imagine his Mind Palace. Here be case plot dragons, Arthur Conan Doyle references and a major twist from canon.  And of course eventual Johnlock though it was never going to be easy for these two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

".They cannot scare me with their empty space  
Between stars - on stars where no human race is  
I have it in me so much nearer home to scare myself with my own desert places"  
Robert frost

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There are 243 different types of tobacco ash and Sherlock is desperately going through each and every one in his mind. 

A room appears behind his eyelids, pale sand coloured marble floor with a subtly contrasting diamond pattern. High vaulted ceiling arches, set at regular intervals with opaque glass lanterns, black edged and simple. Three walls in a muted stone coloured plaster glow in the soft steady light. The last wall is more concept than vision, its neighbouring walls stretch further than the eye can see and it's lost in the distance. The room appears to be a study in contradiction - domestic yet immeasurably vast, grand, yet with an intimate cosy glow. Hushed as a library. It appears unfinished though. There should artwork on the walls in warm autumn tones bringing colour and life into the room, personal items. Instead it's bare and in place of art there are doors, uniform in shape and size, lining three of the walls. 

Sherlock has already opened one, deeply inhaling the smoky air billowing out into the room. Brand logos flash up in front of him a rolling white typefaced scroll of numbers, ash density, burning rates, tar values. He strides into the middle of the data, manipulating size and position with an impatient swipe of the hand, a flick of the head. He has always been happiest with facts. Something solid to anchor his drifting thoughts to. Building blocks giving his life structure, protection from the outside world. Facts don't mock, they're not contrary or inconsistent. They can be relied upon to never change their nature provided you factor in the correct variables. But the facts aren't enough in themselves. Every source of data branches out into associated pathways, spawning further data and yet further until he is completely lost and overwhelmed. He needs the puzzles, elegant, complex, a route to chanel the swirling chaos of sensory input. Shark like, he must keep moving or else suffocate, smothered by the weight of it all. And the hunt does that. Gives him focus, harnesses his mind to a purpose.

There is a coughing sound from somewhere behind the door and Mycroft enters, Whitehall ready suit, tightly furled black umbrella tapping out a counterpoint to the crisp clack of highly polished handmade shoes. He wafts away the swirling smoke irritably. 

"Cigarettes not cutting it, brother mine? You've smoked 20 back to back already. John will be cross." The man pauses in his bored perusal of one neatly manicured hand to shoot a shrewd look at his brother. 

"You express a need for puzzles Sherlock, yet there are mental puzzles more challenging within the spheres of mathematics and chemistry. Your specialities I believe. If it's hunting you want, there's much bigger game on the global stage and whilst you do dabble, the majority of your work is at the domestic level. Small intimate affairs. Interesting don't you think? Is it vanity? The need to be superior, always the smartest man in the room, excepting myself of course. Or do you find that immersing yourself in the sordid pettiness people can be prey to helps you retain your emotional detachment? Perhaps you feel this is the only way you can come in contact with what it is to be normal, that the only company you're fit to keep is with the dead and the desperate. Though it could be London itself, the city you fell in love with at first sight, grime and grandeur, old monuments and modern glass monoliths, close knit neighbourhoods and empty investment properties. A contradiction in concrete form, a fully functioning oxymoron. It's no wonder you feel a sense of kinship. Or is it a mix of them all. Who's to know, you're a mystery even to yourself. And speaking of mysteries...."

Sherlock stares pointedly at the waistcoat buttons straining slightly at his brothers waistline and replies  
"Isn't there a bowl of jam roly poly and custard waiting for you somewhere. Why aren't you there instead? Though really Mycroft, all those stodgy boarding school puddings will be the death of you. Which may save me from further tortuous verbosity."

At this his brother smirks slyly and says, "For one who claims to eschew metaphor and sentimentality...ash Sherlock? Could that have anything to do with the ash blonde hair of your Phoenix friend John Watson. The man who walked through open fire and death in the desert then rose from the dull ashes of depression to blaze a trail through the criminal underbelly of London at your side?"

"Ridiculously melodramatic Mycroft " Sherlock snorts. 

"Come now Sherlock, you don't honestly believe I'm really here talking to you inside your head. I'm not that good yet. I'm the person who sees the most clearly, who has known you the best. Little wonder that you push me away the hardest. 'Most dangerous man in England ' indeed! Little wonder also that you would choose me as the aspect of your psyche you would rather not hear. Your words Sherlock. Your thoughts, your ... feelings" (a grimace of disgust at this last). 

A laugh sudden and short as gun fire echoes through the room and the data evaporates like dew. John. Inexorable as pyroclastic flow when crossed. Steel blue eyes. Upright tempered spine. Practical and deadly. Heat compressed into a small space. John is a dormant volcano. A latent explosion. A bomb waiting to be armed.

Sherlock looks up to his brother's smugly amused face, mouth open to speak and flicks a finger impatiently in his direction. In the place where Mycroft 's mouth was, there is now a large closed metal zipper. Mycroft rolls his eyes unzips his mouth and opens it again. This time Sherlock waves a hand, there's a bright flash, a loud bang and Mycroft disappears in a puff of green smoke like a cheap magicians trick. 

Sherlock impatiently opens another door. This time he's greeted by the smell of rosin and old wood, the aching strains of violin music. Five parallel lines studded with crochets and semi quavers snake out of the door and twine gently round him like smoke. He closes his eyes and his shoulders relax a little until 

"Thats lovely Sherlock, a little lonely sounding but lovely too. What's it called?" John again. And Sherlock remembers how he'd replied with something dismissive about Tchaikovsky's Serenade Melancholique, about suicides and sentimentality and how he'd thought John would like it, it being relatively simple. 

He slams the door closed and moves on to the next one only to be buried in an avalanche of woollen jumpers, of varying shapes and sizes, uniform only in their spectacular lack of style and ugliness. 

Sweating now with hair disheveled from wrestling sweaters back through the door Sherlock moves onto the next one and is met with the oven blast of desert hot air, the drone of helicopters, screams of pain, gunfire, earth shattering explosions and amongst it all a small figure, back turned, but gait and posture immediately familiar. Steady and in complete control, directing solidiers, dispensing surgery and comfort in equal measure. 

On to the next and he's choking as a wave of tea gushes through the door. Soldiers tea, strong for the caffeine hit and to mask the taste of powdered milk. 

On and on, starting to run now wrenching open and slamming doors at random yet each one holds something relating to John. Sherlock stands in the middle of the once smooth, bare floor now scarred with bullet holes, covered with scraps of paper, sand, tea soggy woollen wear, clenching his fists and out of breath. He's at a loss to explain why when so much of his Mind Palace is filled with John he isn't able to summon and dismiss his avatar at will as he has just done with Mycroft's. How can such a seemingly simple man be so hard to figure out? Why can't he work his way around this, think his way through? He could cope with this, block it out if he had a decent case but there's been nothing for weeks and he feels as though his skins on fire. Everything is simultaneously too much and not enough. 

As if summoned Mycroft appears at Sherlocks side, no sly sideways looks and smug expression this time. Mycroft looks directly at his brother, his face somber and a little sad. "Aah yes, the riddle of the death dealing doctor and the naive genius. You never can resist a puzzle, the urge to know an insatiable compulsion. But you've gotten to a point in your life that's finally stable. Are you sure you're willing to jeopardise that? "

"Don't you want to let sleeping dogs lie Sherlock? " 

At this, the faint ghost of a bark reverberates through the room and makes itself felt in a small sharp pain in the vagus nerve in his chest. A small curly haired boy in the distance calls out faintly "Redbeard, come here boy" Sherlock is too far away from him for the expression on his face to be seen. Sherlock sets his jaw obstinately and Mycroft sighs, steps aside and points with his umbrella to the unseen fourth wall at the end of the room.

"Very well brother. But remember that you are not alone."

Lanterns snap on in quick succession whilst the end wall simultaneously rushes in towards him before halting abruptly a foot away. There is only one door in this wall . Large and red. Glistening, throbbing obscenely, bulging and straining against the chains holding it closed. Most of its surface is covered with crime scene tape and danger signs. Standing in front of it is DI Lestrade, exhaustion lining his face, defeat and failure slumping his shoulders. His hands are hiding something behind his back and his suit is crumpled.

"Another night spent on the sofa after one too many pints drunk alone Graham? I take it another attempt to engage your wife's straying attention and save your marriage has been woefully unsuccessful " sniped Sherlock. 

Greg Lestrade rubs a hand tiredly over his face and says "We nearly lost you last time you went in there. I saw what it did to you and what your solution was. Bit more than 7% that time I think. I pulled some strings, risked my job and Mycroft patched you up again through sheer force of will and you want to do it all again you bloody minded fool? Here then, I expect you'll need these." Lestrade thrusts his hands towards the taller man. On one outstretched palm is a a scalpel. On the other a loaded hyperdermic syringe. "I suspect you'll need some pain relief if you intend to perform heart surgery"

Sherlock takes the scalpel and after a short pause walks away without the syringe. That first intentional step is enough to make the chains melt away. Fear is alien to him, He's supremely confident that if he's been there before then he will have cleared out any lurking viper nests and if not, his intellect has never failed to protect him thus far. He raises a steady hand, scalpel ready for the incision but before he does Mycroft calls out sharply

"Be careful Sherlock. In there are things you have deleted but failed to keep from coming back. These are things so unbearable that you have dedicated a dungeon for the sole purpose of keeping them away from you."

Sherlock ignores his brother and makes an incision in the top left quadrant of the warm slightly sticky surface. Slowly, words thoughts and images trickle out through the wound. 'The solar system' written in white italics contrasting with a night sky pricked with stars. A couple lying close together on the grass staring up at them. "Romantic" whispers a faint timid voice. "Nonsense" the voice of student Sherlock "the plaeides cluster is particularly bright tonight and I thought to observe it with the person I find the least dull in a university full of halfwits and social climbers". 

Sherlock relives the feeling of cold, the sensation of hollowness in his chest that feels like loss. Alone. Stars are the brightest, hottest bodies in the universe. They illuminate but burn too fiercely for anything to get close. Immense amounts of energy are required simply to continue being what they are and when that energy is gone, the biggest and brightest of them collapse inwards under their own weight. They require astronomical distance. All light is sucked out from their surroundings, all matter torn apart. 

Another image replaces this. One of the sitting room at 221b Baker Street chaos and violence reflected in the crazed glass of the shattered mantel mirror. Equipment smashed, pages torn and flung from books. Extra bullet holes peppering the wall. 

Another, this of Mrs Hudson fleeing downstairs sobbing and frightened, then the stinging feeling on his cheek caused by a slap from a white faced, tight lipped Molly. The sound of voicemail as Lestrade finally rejects his calls after his latest torrent of abuse. 

And John. A bleeding gash on his temple caused by the violin lying broken behind him. Calling Sherlock inhuman. Calling him a monster. Limping from the flat perhaps never to return. 

At this last, the incision ruptures from floor to ceiling, heomorraging memories so fast they knock him off his feet, wash over his head, he's choking, drowning in them. Jeering faces, "freak" "psychopath" "weirdo" A boy, slightly older than him, buzz cut hair, perpetual sneer, the source of several months of pain and humiliation staring at him in abject horror, tears in his eyes "You slaughtered my cat just to get back at me". A small curly haired boy shoots to his feet, an inexpertly dissected cat beside him, desperate to explain. 

The images shift again. Standing in front of his father grey faced and grim, his mothers every sob punching through his chest like a sledgehammer. "But I didn't kill it father. It had been run over, I just wanted to see what made it work. It wasn't anything to do with Mark." "And that's the problem William Holmes. You didn't stop to think how your actions would affect other people." "Don't send me away mummy. I promise to try harder. You can teach me better than anyone else. You're the cleverest person in the whole world. And they'll pick on me, only you and Mycroft understand me and Mycroft's ashamed of me." At his mothers beseeching look his father replies "It's no good Vivienne. He can't stay at home for the rest of his life. He needs purpose, meaning. And for that he needs a good education. He also needs to be socialised before he becomes irreparably strange."

School, constant battles, hardening his heart, watching carefully, finding secrets, applying leverage, anything to be left alone.

Coming home from school, calling to Redbeard, too eager to wait till he was closer, watching him race across the road, the screech of brakes, his body broken, patient lively loving eyes finally turning dim, howling into his blood soaked fur, not speaking for months, barely eating.

A string of dimly remembered faces and bodies from his early twenties, male and female, his sexual partners. Progressing from painful, awkward, dull, to easily manipulated as he increases in skill and experience, tokens he exchanges for a warm body next to him, desire sated, human interaction, favours gained. All culminating in his married chemistry professor, slept with in order to gain extra lab time. He's not intentionally cruel, just makes no pretence of his boredom and disinterest. Coming into the lab at night to see feet swaying at head level, horrified and unbearably sad as he tries to cut her down. 

Leaving university before he gets his degrees, returning home to his sick mother, every tick of the clock in that too quiet house flicking at nerve endings, every tiny grimace of pain observed, every protective lie seen through. And then running to London where the noise and the lights, the constant motion helps to drown out his emotional turmoil. Until it becomes too familiar and he's seeking something different to dull the edge of things felt too keenly, taking more, taking it more often. 

A glimpse through an open doorway of one of John's interchangeable girlfriends, arms held stretched above her head by strong blunt fingered hands, head tipped back as a tender gentle mouth nips and sucks its way up her throat, the tip of a tongue grazing her lips, the hot wet muscle sliding into her mouth, John's throat voicing a low masculine moan and it's like Sherlock's swallowed lava, burning his throat, tightening his chest and turning him to stone. The smell of John's shampoo, coal tar, a slightly medicinal tang to the rest of his warm musk scent, a steadying hand on his shoulder, his arm, never anywhere intimate enough, his warmth, his kindness, his deadpan humour , his constant everyday presence despite everything that Sherlock's thrown at him. His moments of sadness he endures stoically alone.

Shame, guilt, grief, jealousy, loss, loneliness, rage, humiliation, fear despair, lust, self- loathing, bitter on his tongue, a bad taste in his mouth and it's too much, far, far too much, heart racing, temples pounding, jaw locked, teeth gritted, sweating, a scream trapped in his throat. His Mind Palace in ruins all control lost. Sherlock surfaces with a jerk, eyes snap open and he sits bolt upright gasping for breath like a drowning victim, eyes stinging and wet, throat hoarse. 

Intolerable. How can anyone limp through life like this without a crutch. 7% won't be enough. And he's so very tired now. It would be good to sleep, better for those around him. He can't go to any of his former haunts where the product's decent. Mycroft managed to scare those hardline gangsters and thugs so badly they won't even meet his gaze in the street. No, he'll have to go to the low life dealers, the scum that cut their drugs with baby powder, dog worming tablets and worse. He picks his way through the wreckage and stands for a moment one hand on the fine dark wool of his Belstaff coat. Once affectation, a costume, now as part of himself as a second skin. But he doesn't want to be noticed where he's going. He goes into his room pulls a plastic bag from behind his wardrobe. Dark hooded top and jeans pushed down roughly inside.


	2. Chapter 2

He makes it to the door before he hears footsteps on the stairs, tread too heavy to be Mrs Hudson. John then. No longer limping, gait sure and steady. Someone will be nursing an injury somewhere. Sherlock hides the bag behind the sofa and assumes the pose he'd adopted when John left, hands steepled under his chin, eyes firmly closed, not opening even when John enters the room bringing in the smell of rain, left shoe squelching slightly. Rustling, not much, so he's taking something small out of a bag. 

"Sherlock." His voice is grim and a little harsh. Sherlock refuses to acknowledge him. Won't open his eyes, doesn't trust his voice. A sigh and a sound that denotes a hand sweeping through rain damp hair and John's speaking again. 

"You can take that" the last word spat out, something clattering down onto the coffee table. Sherlock's eyes fly open to see John's hand moving away, knuckles scuffed and bloody, a hyperdermic sealed in a packet, white powder in a separate one. John starts again tone softer this time but no less grim. 

"It's clean. Sterilised. You can take it here with me to monitor you, make sure you're safe...." John, moral, upright, with a distaste for illegal drugs and the damage they cause offering to help him shoot up? Sherlocks sweeps his eyes across John's face. Shoulders tense, jaw set, gaze unwavering. He doesn't approve, hates the idea yet he will do as promised. Always a surprise. Rarely acting as expected, John has blindsided him again. But he's not finished

"... Or you can pick a case, any case and come out with me"

"There's nothing" Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth. "Don't you think I've tried?" 

 

A newspaper rustles. "What about this one, 'Philanthropist and man about town Neville St Clair, renowned for his work with homeless charities murdered by homeless addict. Wife says of prime suspect 'he seems familiar somehow. My husband may have met him at one time'"

"Tedious" Sherlock replies. "If they take DNA from the burnt corpse they will find it to be that of Hugh Boone whilst the man purporting to be him is none other than Mr St Clair. The wife knows on a subconscious level. The impression of a spouse can be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner, though the title is barely deserved in the case of DI Dimmock. They will probably find something shady in Mr St Clair's dealings and that Mr Boone was blackmailing him.(i)

"Ok, request from a client then. A young woman disappearing from her wedding breakfast. Seemingly happy until her gaze falls on someone in church and she fumbles her bouquet in shock. Lestrade believes her husband has something to do with it. Well known as a bit of a player. Marries her for her fortune, she goes missing shortly after. And it was his former stripper girlfriend that Miss Doran saw in the church." (ii)

"Pointless. I've already reviewed this. It doesn't even rate as a two. She's ran off with her former husband." 

"Nice try but not possible. He died years ago on a hiking trip" 

"Mistaken identity, short term amnesia and a note with his initials passed to the bride under the disguise of picking up her bouquet. Do keep up John. To paraphrase Thoreau, if there's a trout swimming in your milk it's fairly certain someone's watering it down. (iii) When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains no matter how improbable must be the truth." (iv)

 

John clears his throat, shifts position in his chair as though bracing himself and quietly says "I've got one you haven't seen before. No-one has". 

Sherlock sits up and takes in John's hands clenching on his thighs. His eyes are downcast and he won't meet Sherlock's. He motions him to go on. "Four months ago. White female victim. Aged 37. Married. Worked as a graphic designer. A lovely woman. Universally well liked. Sociable and popular at work. Handcuffed to a chair and stabbed 15 times in the chest in a frenzied attack in her own kitchen." 

"Suspects?" 

"White female aged 33 found passed out holding the kitchen knife still stuck in the victims chest. Her wife. She doesn't remember anything." 

"Case number?" 

"There is none." 

"A domestic turned bad surely". 

"Perhaps. But I don't think she's guilty". 

Sherlock raises one eyebrow and takes in the way John's throat works at this last. You may not think so John but you don't know for sure either.

Johns gaze is still fixed firmly on the floor, his face pale. It's not fear keeping his eyes down. John would never lie to him. Knows Sherlock wouldn't need to look into his eyes to know if he was. No, not fear. Shame and guilt. But why. It's not possible that John is guilty of the murder. John has only ever killed in defence of himself or others. John would consider even the vilest criminal entitled to a fair fight. So why not report it to the police. And why has no one else reported it? Sherlock gives a short huff of surprise and John finally looks up at him misery radiating from his every feature as he realises that Sherlock knows. 

"Will you take my case Sherlock" 

Sherlock takes in John's tense unhappy features and replies "Regardless of whether I find the suspect innocent or guilty, you'll still be guilty of covering up a murder. My investigation is likely to lead to your arrest." 

John finally looks up, looks Sherlock directly in the eye. "Maybe it should. The only reason it hasn't yet is that I'm not the only person involved". 

Sherlock marshals the tattered remnants of his sanity around him. The sight of John broken, miserable, makes him wish he was the kind of man who could put his arms around him, hold him close, comfort him. Makes him wish that John were the kind of man willing to accept such comfort. He offers up his best guess at a reassuring smile and says 

"Well, we can think about that later. For now, the game is on. Lead on John". But John is still wary, there is tension between them and Sherlock, who has fooled, blagged and wheedled his way into and out of more situations than he can care to number, curses his inability to act more convincingly when it counts.

 

The taxi drive is silent. John stares out of the window, a million miles away. Every breath, shift in movement and expression is studied from the corner of Sherlock's eye, studied, parsed for meaning, monitored for innocuous seeming opportunities to draw closer. To touch. His skin feels newly sensitised, the slightest contact feels like a series of static shocks. But he holds himself rigidly away for the most part. He cannot afford to give way. John is counting on him. Mercifully the mystery sweeps him up into its grip.

"A lovely woman". He focuses on the statement that stands out from the rest of the police legalese quoted by John. He knew her personally then. Cared for her. Which makes it all the more incredible that he would choose to cover up her murder. He must have known the wife personally too then. What would inspire him to such desperate lengths? 

Blackmail? Sherlock discounts this. John would not have done anything heinous enough that he would consider covering up a murder the lesser of the two evils. And if he had done anything remotely blackmail worthy he would come clean rather than be bullied into a course of action completely contrary to his moral code. 

Love? Sherlock ignores the sickening lurch in his stomach accompanying this thought. For as long as he has known him, John has never been with one partner for long enough to trigger such devotion. He doesn't speak of former partners with anything like the passion required to be involved with murder, he keeps no keepsakes, seems open and unworried about his past relationship history. It could be that his medical discharge and subsequent depression changed his emotional habits, but it's unlikely. He has heard enough oafish banter from his old university friends on the subject of 'Three Continents Watson' to realise that he has never been with one person for long. 

Responsibility, a sense of duty? This seems the most likely scenario. A former lover struggling with alcoholism would have drawn parallels with his alcoholic brother Harry, the guilt he feels at not being there more for him, the difficulty of their relationship. That would explain why despite believing the wife incapable of murder, he can't be sure. Johns a doctor. He will have seen the statistics on alcoholism and increased violence.

 

The taxi pulls up in a quiet street a reasonable walk away from the curry houses of Brick Lane, the neighbourhood, eclectic, bohemian, slightly rugged around the edges. John hurries out of the taxi as, uncharacteristically, Sherlock stops to pay. John knocks on a bright yellow glossy door, a bold choice in a Victorian mid terraced house. A woman answers the door, dyed red hair an edgy contrast to her business suit, slightly rumpled as if she'd been woken from a nap on the sofa. A whiskey tumbler in one hand. Neat, no ice. 

"Christ Harriet, it's 10 in the morning and you're already on the hard stuff. " 

At this she throws her arms clumsily around his neck and slurs woozily "Johnny boy, it's so good to see you, it's been a while. Harriet is it, ooooh, I am in trouble aren't I. But then aren't I always Sir." A mock salute, clicked heels. "Captain Doctor John Hamish Watson. The model son, the perfect soldier, an upright citizen. Upright and uptight that's John" she giggles. 

But perhaps it's partly an act to irritate the man standing in front of her, as when Sherlock walks up to stand behind John, she looks him over curiously from top to bottom. Gaze clear and piercing. "Who's tall, dark and handsome? He's enough to make a lady consider changing her orientation. Or a man. Finally admitting to some latent man love John? Don't think I never noticed that faint pink flush to your cheeks every time you talked about a certain Major Sholto. And you talked about him a lot. 

"Harriet, this is my friend ...." 

"Oh I don't think so. Posh, expensive, public schooled, never in the armed forces, looks too arrogant to take orders. Do you like rugby?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Didn't think so. Where would a man like you meet a man like him except on the most superficial of basis. And yet you're as physically comfortable with him as if you'd known him for years. You don't like anyone standing behind you, a legacy of your time in combat. And yet there he stands, close enough to touch. He's literally got your back. So tell me Mr Possible Love Interest, which type are you? John only goes for 2 specific types of lovers. The first is relentlessly ordinary, so similar I have difficulty remembering any of their names, so unbelievably beige, they make me want to vomit just to add some colour to the scenery. He chooses these because he's labouring under the delusion that he's suited to a life of boring domesticity.   
But every now and again there'll be a Damsel in Distress. These are usually flawed broken creatures. Mad bad or dangerous to know. John will race through these bruised, breathless and on one occasion nearly bankrupt until he's fixed them, in which case he'll grow bored again. None of them last very long I'm afraid to say. You don't pass as ordinary. You've failed to introduce yourself, or done anything to lubricate the awkwardness of a first social meeting taking place during an argument. In fact, you've spent the whole time silently watching. I wouldn't have thought Damsel unless...."

The petite red haired woman peers at Sherlock more closely. "What's your poison? There must be something. Clear eyes, skin pale but not yellow, too thin. You're still, but practically crackling with suppressed energy. Junkie? A fellow addict knows the signs of someone in need of a fix. You've obviously been clean for some years so it's not a physiological need. It must be psychological. You're in pain. " 

Harriet leans in close and whispers in his ear "John Watson, an easy man to love, a hard man to keep". Sherlock starts violently at this. She grabs a forearm and pulls up his shirtsleeve. Finding it clear she inspects in between his fingers. 

"Aah, that's were you shoot up. This ones either vain or secretive. " she takes in the Belstaff, the tailored trousers, the close lipped silence. "Perhaps both" 

"Finished?" Sherlock grins wolfishly. "Then I believe it's my turn. There's only one bottle of whiskey in the room, only one measure missing none of which judging by the volume left has gone from your glass. The rim is clean, no lipstick. The whiskey smells as if it has been airing for some time so you've not just poured it.   
You are an alcoholic. You have slight tremors in your left hand, your skins mildly jaundiced, fairly far along yet you're not drinking. You're not drunk just pretending. If you were serious about sobriety you would not have the whiskey in your house.   
So punishment then. You don't think you deserve oblivion. Depression. The flat was completely silent as we arrived. You dozed off on the sofa in the middle of the day with nothing but a tormenting glass of whiskey keeping you company. Yet none of the other signs of depression are there. You're neatly dressed, carefully made up, your hair has recently been styled. You're trying to keep up appearances but not for yourself. You care very little about yourself.   
Protecting someone. You weren't expecting a friend or a lover, you're dressed in a business suit which automatically creates a little personal reserve, yet you wouldn't have brought the whiskey to the door if it was business. You didn't seem surprised to see John. It's John you're protecting, just as he is protecting you. And" Sherlock bristles, "you are trading heavily on his guilt about his former relationship with you." 

"Former? I didn't think things were quite that bad yet John". 

John sighs, rubs his hand across his face and says "Right, introductions then." 

He gestures to the red haired slender woman "My sister, Harriet Watson". 

The woman shakes Sherlock's hand and says "Call me Harry, after all we're practically family" and winks. 

Of course! A mobile phone is not a sentimental keepsake, photos and messages can be deleted, engraving covered with a case. She wouldn't have received an upgrade yet the phones too new so why get rid of it? A mobile phone is an essential tool of modern life. She got rid of it because it's evidence and John, in his guilt, kept it. 

"This is my friend Sherlock Holmes." The woman blanches at the sound of the name. Then as if ashamed of her momentary weakness she stiffens her spine and looks Sherlock directly in the eye. 

"You're not as tall as I expected. I thought you'd be older." 

"And you're not a man" he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My homage to Arthur Conan Doyle  
>  (i) is loosely from "The Man with the Twisted Lip"  
>  (ii) is loosely from "The Adventure of the Noble Batchelor"  
>  (iii) my interpretation of ACD's Thoreau quote in the above story  
>  (iv) I had to squeeze in Sherlock's best quote somewhere!
> 
> Please accept my apologies for any inaccuracies/stuff that doesn't look right. It's all based on my memories of the stories, a little research and tv.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it half as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you have any constructive criticism or just any tips on getting the best out of AO3 please let me know.


End file.
